HOG

I could walk Eerie backward—could carve—into wood panel—I put on lipstick—& wipe it off—watch the headlights—as he parks his dad's car on grass—lighting the panels of the old—pig hut—I'd like to be able to hide something—he looks at me—the way length of a the lake changes—everybody knows—what happens in the pig hut—with his pocketknife—I'm supposed to carve—in the dirt—mica—on the walls—shadows—all of the letters scarred into wood—my flashlight—on the one darker plank—where someone carved HOG—in inlayed blue letters—I traced them—until they showed on my thumb—rain on the tin roof—standing in the dark—like the lead came soldered—around a high brown window—

TIN

In the yard
my husband
the bee
keep his one
good hand
moving over
my body
belly
Cain
making room
making room
baby
growing
inside me
my baby
my baby
Cain
sleeping
with his clothes on
in the yard
how far
along?
measuring
sound
inside me
this might
be a little
cold a little
pressure
like a pickling
a biding
to bide
& abide by
when he found them
hived beside
the humming
colonies
undigging
tins
of babythings
he wretched
up the stone steps
noisy
like an animal
You're sick
You are sick
I can't
Even look at you
my body
lending me
baby
after baby
molds
I made of
my own
pregnant belly
my face
with one eye
sealed shut

__

HALYARD

In a gas station bathroom     on our way to Chicago    
I sat on the floor while you     put aquaphor    on your new back tattoo    
we'd passed the cremation billboard     advertising death
for nine hundred & ninety-nine dollars     I can't imagine being
incinerated     on the floor of a gas station bathroom     I wore
the yellow rainboots      that I didn't want at fifteen     when I took them    
gravely     into my adolescent disposition     my mother told me
I had too thick a coating     of New England     ambivalence    
I asked you     to take me with you     thinking I    
could be different     with you     gripped at the chain-link
saying everything     is enterable     inhale      on the floor of a gas station bathroom
I kept thinking if I blinked     something terrible     would happen to me 
nine hundred & ninety-nine times     I disagree   
you're broken     frankly, I digress with you     I'd pay more
to bury you     your head in your hands the whole summer    
saying all you could think about    were the men who sweep the shattered bits    
off the highway after a crash     I was a halyard     eradicable    
same as I was    the night I stole those mirrors     & couldn't look at myself
watching bridges rise for sailboats     waiting to feel
heroic     calling it all so romantic     I am your     halyard & you are    
one hand on the guard against    in every conceivable way now    
I told you    I don't know how to see the world     all of the dark    
& blinding places     everything     blind & asking
should we stop running from home?

EAST AVENUE

August is too hot for pallbearing—but you have to do it anyway—outside St. Thomas—
my brothers help you heave—the casket on—to little rollers—

I watch from across the street—in my car in my mother's dress—I can't—seem to get out—
East Avenue—by Penny's by the train—handwritten chalk signs flapping—LIVE! BAIT! CHEAP!—

you walk—into the church you used to tongue—the Jesus crackers—off the roof of your mouth—

same as always—hardheaded, hair—in your face—touching your nose—nervously—
making no sounds covering the parts of your body—which permanently welt—

from when you slipped in concrete—setting fence posts—so nervous to tell let it—set on you—
until you came up the driveway hardening—& my dad hosed you off in the yard—

with your father—you walk now—down the nave—your father from the ranch house blue carpeting—
picking at the alkaline blistering—at the white wrap you scratched—

your father waking me—in a twin bed we were sleeping—rapping on the broken bathroom door—
walking from room to room—turning lights off—

makeup he wiped—from under my eyes—early morning you—pretty young thing—

I'm not who I want to be—waiting on the rebuilt boardwalk—they're calling hurricane-proof—

this morning I laid—two white pressed shirts—on the bed of the motel 6—wanting you nearer—
in the blue suit you wore to graduation—pulling sleeve collars to hide your hands—

flicking his switchblade—you walked through the church doors blinking—hazard lights—
of the procession—checking over your shoulder—just a second—I promise—I'm right behind you

__

These poems are part of a larger series. Thank you for reading them!